


Experimental Medium

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Painting, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Seine AU where Valjean encourages Javert to take up a new hobby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experimental Medium

Javert never used paint before moving in with Valjean. He could never afford to, and aside from that he found artists suspicious as a rule and did not consider his sketches a matter of art. When he strayed from perfunctory profile sketches, it was to sketch architecture and landscapes he had seen, or to draw small flowers and knots and other complex things in the margins of his journal as he read. He had a knack for accuracy and enough patience to slowly accumulate skill in the work, but it did not interest him or bring him any joy. 

Valjean, of course, gifted him paints without even asking; when Javert asked him what on Earth for, he merely stated that he enjoyed Javert's drawings and thought painting might help him relax. "Relax," a coy way of suggesting that a new hobby might keep Javert from killing himself. The money had already been spent, so Javert, loath to waste it, began practicing. His first attempts were mainly of Valjean's garden; when he became more accustomed to it, he began painting some of his old sketches. One evening, Cosette approached him and said that she would be absolutely flattered to be painted, though he had not so much as suggested to her that he would like to—it did not take him long to deduce that Valjean, wanting a painting of his daughter, had suggested to her that Javert might like to paint her. 

Well, fine, he thought, and so spent several days working with her for a few hours at a time. It was nothing remarkable, but once finished, Cosette, Marius, and Valjean all gathered about the canvas and gasped and talked until Javert had to leave the room and take a walk rather than snap at them. The painting went up in Valjean's study.

Occasionally, Valjean would ask him what he was working on, but by and large, he left Javert to it, and never interrupted him while he worked. To be honest, Javert preferred ink and paper, but he wanted to use up the paint—and as time wore on, it became a shield of sorts, an excuse to avoid Valjean if he so wanted. He was comforted by the knowledge that he had at least one section of his day that could be his alone. The focus that painting required did, in fact, calm him when his thoughts were troubled. He accepted, at length, that Valjean's decision was a clever one. 

His first piece to deviate from a mirroring of his surroundings into a personal art was born of anger. An argument had broken out between them, and old wounds reopened, and Javert, hot with anger, took a blank canvas to the garden and began assaulting it with streaks of black like knife-strokes. As his anger abated into a vast new well of emotions, he slowed, became deliberate, let himself speak with each brushstroke words that could not be said, that could hardly be thought. He worked until dusk's light gave out. It was only then that he returned to Valjean with paint-stained fingers, and he kissed him desperately.

When they finished and could take inventory of themselves, he noted that there were black smudges on Valjean's face and neck, faint remnants of his work. He pressed his face into Valjean's neck and inhaled deeply, taking in the strange—but not unpleasant—mix of paint and sweat.

His painting, which he had left in the hall to dry, was gone in the morning. He scowled at its absence but did not ask about it; most of his work ended up in Valjean's closet, as Valjean learned quickly that Javert would throw it out otherwise. Still, he could not help but be agitated, as Valjean clearly had been bothered by the work; he treated Javert with the kind of gentleness that he used in the early days, a little too cordial, his smiles a little too quick, his hand too eager to find Javert's arm or shoulder. 

When Javert returned home in the evening and found that Valjean's neediness had not waned, he finally snapped, "Stop coddling me," and took to Valjean's study before he could witness Valjean's reaction. He stuck his nose in a book which had been unimpressive thus far and set to reading with the grim determination that he wielded when he had to deal with the bureaucratic paperwork of his duties. After a quarter hour, the door creaked open. Javert did not look up.

Valjean read for a while at his desk, and the steady sound of his breathing eased away Javert's irritation. Perhaps, he decided, he had been unfair. It made sense that Valjean would still be wary; it had not been a year since that black night. There were still deep waters between them that they had not been brave enough to broach. 

"The stars," Valjean murmured, his voice rolling through the silence. "Are they accurate?" 

"No," Javert said. "There were none."

"And the river?"

"It was blacker than even that."

"I do not remember." Valjean remained hunched over his book and Javert his, but their focus was palpable between them. "The way you painted the starlight, it was..." 

Javert shut his book. "Are you ready for bed?" he asked.

If Valjean was distressed by this, he did not show it. They went together, and, later, lay tangled in the sheets. When Javert pressed his nose into Valjean's neck, the sharp smell of paint was gone. It was the act of noticing this that made him realize he wanted it, that made him want the black smears on Valjean's flushed skin.

His pulse thrummed, light and quick, under Javert's mouth.

"I am almost out of paint," Javert said. "I have enough for one more project. If it will not trouble you." 

Valjean's fingers ran through his hair, slowly. "What will it be?"

"You, I think."

*

And so they have come to this: Valjean bound on the bed and Javert at the foot of it with a palette in hand. The bed is covered in old towels, and it is the deliberate construction of that which stirs Javert.

He is still not used to seeing the whole of Valjean's naked body, and so he hesitates at the foot of the bed, taking in the worn lines of it. Valjean's hands have been bound to the bed by a long wool scarf as a precaution against spoiling Javert's work. The smell of paint is sharp in the air, though the window is open and the curtains rustle in the breeze. 

Valjean shifts on the bed. His hands twist against the bonds; he could break free, if needed. Javert made sure of that. He knows that it can be difficult for Valjean to bear chains of any kind, and it is with that knowledge that he dips his brush in the black paint and seeks to distract him. 

He holds the paintbrush over Valjean's stomach, and hesitates there. The first mark seems as daunting as their first kiss—but Javert's hand is steady. Valjean's breath is shallow, his body tense with anticipation. 

Javert begins to paint.

The paint must be cold, because at the first touch of the brush, Valjean gasps and shudders. Javert's stroke is marred. He holds Valjean down by his hips and continues; Valjean squirms. "Be still," he chides. Valjean turns his face into his arm and mutters his apologies under his breath. They fall to silence as Javert works; the paint glides over Valjean's body. He paints long, long tree branches across his stomach, and dots leaves along his sides and down his hips; the trunk twines down his left leg, its roots twisting inside his thighs and down his knee. Valjean moans as Javert inscribes a knotted root on his knee; his leg trembles, and the root smears. 

Javert has begun a tangled mess of flowers on his right calf when he glances up—his mouth goes dry—Valjean's cock has begun to stiffen, and it hangs across the trunk of the tree, smearing the wet paint along its length. "I'm spoiling it, aren't I?" Valjean asks, strained.

Javert swallows. "Yes." It is an unduly difficult task to drop his gaze and focus on the flowers; as he does, he can hear Valjean breathe out a low-pitched noise, not quite a moan, and he has to tamp down on a groan of his own in response. He finishes a rose on the inside of Valjean's thigh and begins to paint his way back up, long, meandering ribbons that make Valjean's stomach jump and his cock grow stiffer still. He marks the outline of a building that is mostly obscured by the leaves—and the sharp, straight lines seem alien here, on this trembling flesh which flushes and responds to each touch of the brush, each daub of paint. 

Then, working with great care, Javert begins to paint the night sky across Valjean's chest. Each star is a careful prick of the brush; he dusts Valjean with black constellations, mapping each one from memory. Valjean's back arches off the bed and his eyes flicker shut. "Javert," he breathes. "Javert, I—"

"I am almost done," Javert says. "Be still a little longer." He is almost out of paint. He has saved the North Star for last, and finally paints it now, over Valjean's racing heart. 

He sits back and looks upon his work. The tree is smeared; Valjean is fully erect, his cock flushed pink and marred with black paint. His strokes are not nearly clean enough, and Valjean's shifting has ruined some of the details which Javert applied with such care. Valjean himself shines with sweat and he is taut, strung out, close to coming. It is perfect. Valjean is wrought with meaning.

With the last traces of paint, Javert brushes clouds across Valjean's collarbones and up his neck, taking care to touch the sensitive skin of his neck as lightly as possible, knowing that the faint touch is worse when Valjean is so close to the edge. Valjean bares his teeth. 

Javert cannot hold back any longer—he sets the palette on the bedside table along with the brush, bends down, and kisses Valjean, deep and slow. His hand slides down through the wet paint, down, smearing the leaves, cutting branches in half. He takes Valjean's cock in his hand and begins to stroke him, taking care to maneuver the foreskin over the head of his cock; as they kiss, Valjean wriggles out of his bonds and takes Javert by the hair. His hips buck up against Javert—he stops kissing, suddenly, though his mouth remains open, wanting.

Javert leans back and watches as he comes, his cock twitching, his muscles locked with pleasure—the black paint overlaid with drops of white ejaculate. 

Valjean slumps against the bed. They are quiet for a moment, Javert palming himself, unhurried, through his trousers and thinking about the bath they will have to draw for him. 

"I will buy more," Valjean says, suddenly. His voice is still thin; he has not quite regained his breath. "It is good for you to have a hobby.”


End file.
